


under your skin (the moon is alive)

by blackkat



Series: Stupid MadaTobi AUs [17]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Desk Sex, Hand Jobs, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Reunions, Terrible Coffee Orders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-24 10:29:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13809312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: Madara growls, but if Tobirama’s going to pretend not to be a petty asshole, he can too. “Fine,” he says snippily, then turns to where Hikaku is hovering at the edge of the counter, looking uncertain. “An extra-large black house coffee with two shots of espresso and one sugar—”“No,” Tobirama interrupts, and Madara jerks around to stare at him, because he knew Tobirama for years and the bastard always drank the exact same thing. Not once, in their two years together or the numerous coffee shop dates before that, did Tobirama even once change his order.Apparently unaware of this, Tobirama meets Madara's eyes, and says like it’s a personal challenge, “I’ll take a large skim milk latte with three pumps of raspberry syrup and two pumps of caramel. Whipped cream and chocolate shavings on top, thank you.”





	under your skin (the moon is alive)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [1cobaltDream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/1cobaltDream/gifts).



“Are you sure you're happy here?” Kawarama asks, leaning on his elbows on Tobirama’s desk and watching him carefully.

Tobirama doesn’t let himself look up, because really, with Kawarama that’s the next best thing to a trap. “Don’t you have an airplane to be jumping out of?” he asks dryly, instead of answering. It’s the world’s most transparent attempt at changing the subject, but as long as it works Tobirama doesn’t care.

“That was last week,” Kawarama says cheerfully, and he’s unfortunately not moving. “Tobirama, are you _sure_? You haven’t left your office even once today.”

“I have work,” Tobirama tells him tartly, though it doesn’t have quite the bite it would if Hashirama were the one staring at him. He flicks a hand, encompassing the piles upon piles of file folders covering his desk, and, when Kawarama doesn’t look convinced, adds, “I have three contracts that need to be written and a case going to its first hearing next week. I do not have _time_ to leave my office right now.”

Kawarama doesn’t look pleased, but he at least doesn’t argue, though he does pull himself up to perch on the edge of the desk like a gangly teenage bird. “You didn’t answer my question,” he points out, cocking his head.

Tobirama is absolutely certain that Kawarama was some sort of terrier in another life. He’s never known when to drop a subject and let it die. Offering his little brother a glare, he pointedly picks up the briefs on his case and flips the folder open.

With a roll of his eyes, Kawarama reaches out and pulls them from his hands. “Tobirama,” he complains, and when Tobirama gives him a pissy look he huffs. “You realize I'm going to university in three months?” he asks. “I'm not a little kid anymore. You and Hashirama don’t have to provide for me and Itama anymore. We’re _fine_.”

“This,” Tobirama says stiffly, “has nothing to do with that—”

“Of course it does.” Kawarama slides back to the ground, setting the files aside, and says, “You haven’t _really_ been happy since we moved.”

Tobirama stiffens, tries to hide it. There's absolutely nothing in the whole damn world he wants to talk about less than _this_.

Unfortunately, Kawarama got Hashirama’s stubbornness, and even as he forges on he squares his shoulders and sets his feet, ready for a fight. “I know you're never going to tell us what happened, and that’s fine, but when we lived with Tōka you were always happy. You wanted—something other than _this_.” A sweep of his hand takes in the neat office, the law firm outside the door.

“ _This_ is a successful job at a prestigious firm,” Tobirama tells him coolly. “It was precisely what I was aiming for when we left Tanzaku Gai.”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t what you _wanted_ ,” Kawarama says, and snags his messenger bag from the chair. Even as Tobirama opens his mouth, he turns away, and says, “I was going to pick up lunch for everyone. Want your usual?”

…That’s not nearly as stubborn as Tobirama was expecting him to be, though he supposes getting the last word in might count for enough to balance the lack of argument. “Yes,” he says, a little suspiciously, and Kawarama knows precisely why, the brat, if that cheeky smile is anything to go by. “And a large—”

“If you want coffee, buy it yourself,” Kawarama retorts. “I’ll tell Itama on you.”

Tobirama hides a wince. “I don’t—”

“You gave yourself an _ulcer_.” Kawarama rolls his eyes. “If Itama says you should stop drinking coffee, you should stop drinking coffee. Or at least stop drinking the black tar in the office pot.”

Tobirama is willing to admit that he’s tasted motor oil that’s more palatable than what the office brews, but still. “And drink Hashirama’s ridiculous concoctions instead?” he retorts.

Kawarama laughs, bright and happy, and grins at Tobirama as he reaches the door. “They're good for a sugar high,” he offers, and then, “He’s been worried about you. You should stop by and make sure he knows you're alive.”

“We live in the same _house_ ,” Tobirama complains, but Kawarama is already out the door, calling a cheerful goodbye to the secretary as he jogs for the stairs.

Well, Tobirama thinks, rubbing a hand over his hair and letting out a sigh. At least Kawarama isn’t in any danger of losing his spot on the football team, if he’s choosing to bike several dozen miles just to visit them all, get their lunch orders, pick up the food, and then ferry it back. Not that that was _ever_ a worry, beyond the terror of thinking about Kawarama without an outlet for his energy.

Firmly setting that image aside, Tobirama rubs the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes, telling himself not to look at the clock. There's still far too much work to do to even _think_ about going home, and he wasn’t exaggerating his workload when he told Kawarama he couldn’t leave.

He wasn’t exaggerating the importance of this job, either. Even with his grades, Tobirama was fortunate to land it right out of his first position. It’s a good job, and it pays well. It’s satisfying, sometimes, and even if it’s not exciting, that’s fine. This is work, and it’s not meant to be.

He really, really wishes he could have a cup of coffee, though. It’s been two weeks, and Tobirama craves caffeine more than he’s ever craved anything in his _life_ before.

If Hashirama was the one to ban coffee, he’d have broken the prohibition the day it was handed down. Unfortunately, Itama is far better at kicking Tobirama in the gut with sheer _disappointment_ , and Tobirama will never admit it, but he can sometimes lack a spine where his younger brothers are concerned. Kawarama is easy to deal with, because he and Tobirama are all too alike, but Itama is gentle and soft-spoken and sweet, with a manipulative streak to put a con artist to shame. He’ll make a good doctor, Tobirama thinks wryly.

With a sigh, he reaches out, dragging the briefs Kawarama stole closer and opening them again. If he works a little faster than normal, and maybe takes a few things home, he can leave at a more normal time and walk home with Hashirama. It will be an exercise in annoyance, most likely, but it should be enough of a gesture that Hashirama will put his worry aside for a while.

Maybe Tobirama will even get him one of his terrible coffees, to top things off. There's very little Hashirama won't do for sugar, and Tobirama is most definitely not above bribery.

 

 

Madara is absolutely above bribery, but sometimes he really wishes that he wasn’t.

“This is _my shop_ ,” he snarls at his little brother, who’s looking supremely unrepentant. “If I tell you to man the counter, you need to _man the counter_.”

“But I have a _delivery_ ,” Izuna wheedles, waving the carrier with two coffees like that’s going to do anything at all to appease Madara's current homicidal rage. He also has one of their bakery bags tucked into the crook of his arm, steam still escaping through the top, and Madara knows _precisely_ what sparked this need for a field trip. Izuna has been drooling over an employee at the local flower shop for _weeks_ now.

“We don’t _do_ deliveries!” he hisses, making to snatch the coffees right out of Izuna's hold.

Well-practiced at this game, Izuna dances back out of reach, edging closer to the rear door as he does. “Half an hour!” he protests. “Consider this my lunch break, all right? I won't be gone _that_ long!”

“You already took your lunch break, three hours ago! I'm _paying you_ to man the counter and pull drinks, and if you’re not doing that—” Madara lunges, not entirely sure whether he wants to hold the coffees hostage or just strangle his sibling, but at that exact moment the door opens, and Izuna bolts. He practically mows down Hikaku as he passes, and the teenager yelps, trips, and falls right into Madara's arms as the door slams smugly shut.

“God damn it,” Madara mutters, glaring pure death at the exit as he sets Hikaku back on his feet. “Clock the idiot out when you punch in, would you? I'm not paying him to wander around the city, even if he is still wearing an apron.”

“Sure,” Hikaku says, a little sheepishly. “Sorry, I didn’t know—”

Madara waves off the apology, because the only one at fault here is his ridiculous brother. “The rush has mostly died down, but there are still a few tables that need to be cleared.”

“All right.” Hikaku smiles at him, then heads for the time clock, pulling his hair up into a ponytail. With a grimace, Madara does the same, fishing a band out of his pocket and resigning himself to taking the bookwork he was _planning_ to get done today home with him. Hiring family was clearly a mistake, even if he wanted a way to keep Izuna out of trouble in between classes.

Grabbing an apron off the hook by the door, Madara stalks back into the front of the shop, casting a critical eye over the bar and the grinders. Clean, surprisingly, though Madara supposes he would have fired Izuna a long time ago if he were _truly_ worthless. There are no customers waiting, at least, even if two of the tables are still occupied, and a handful of students have staked out the couches and chairs by the window and don’t look in a hurry to move. Given that they’ve already bought enough coffee today to put the shop in the black, Madara can't say he minds.

Settling himself next to the register, Madara checks the time. It’s almost five, and the evening shift will be here soon, at least. Izuna skipping out on the last two hours of work is mildly more acceptable than if he had left in the middle of the day, even if Madara is still going to give him hell for it for the rest of the month.

The quiet is nice, the music that’s playing is soft and unobtrusive, and Madara can think of worse ways to spend the evening than working in his own shop, no matter how irritated he is. The lull does, however, give him rather too much time to think, and he rubs a hand over his tightly bound hair, grimacing at himself. It’s a good thing he’s here, given Izuna's desertion, but he didn’t actually need to come in today. He’d done it mostly because he couldn’t bear the emptiness of his apartment, the echoing quality it’s taken on since Mito moved out. Even before she left, it felt…cold. They’d existed in chilly silence for weeks before their final fight, and Madara is still trying to drown out the echoes of it that linger between the walls.

In the rather startling wake of abruptly becoming a bachelor again, Madara can admit he’s lonely. The apartment is too large, and his thoughts don’t fill it comfortably. Mito wasn’t at fault for leaving, and he can see that now, even if it was hard in the immediate aftermath. Madara was…comparing, he supposes. Expecting her to be someone else. And she almost was, was so _close_ to what he was looking for, but that just made the differences more jarring.

Five years now, and Madara is still chasing ghosts.

With a muttered curse, he turns, grabbing a wet rag to wipe down the counter over the bakery case. It’s clean, hardly needs the attention, but Madara still scrubs furiously at imaginary spots, trying to distract himself. Hikaku is collecting the scattered dishes, humming along to the song that’s playing, and it’s just loud enough to distract from the traffic outside the tall windows. There are plenty of people on the street, and Madara breathes through the tightness in his chest from old memories, focuses on what's in front of him.

Above his head, the bell over the door chimes.

Madara glances up, hears Hikaku’s cheerful, “Good evening!” and stops short. His heart suddenly feels like it’s high up in his throat, pounding away, but his head is absolutely blank, empty of everything.

White hair glows under the lights, and the shadows catch on high cheekbones. Perfectly put together as always, wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase, red eyes on Hikaku as he murmurs something, and of all the people in the whole damn _world_ , this is the very last one Madara expected to ever see again.

Tobirama turns towards the counter, takes a step, and freezes. His eyes widen, shock flickering over his features for half a second before he controls his expression, the repressed bastard, and Madara _should not_ think that anywhere near as fondly as he does. But equal to the rage bubbling up in his chest is something bright and effervescent, almost soaring. Madara doesn’t want to acknowledge it, wants to snarl and snap and demand that Tobirama Senju get the hell out of his store and march right back out of his life, but the words just—

Aren’t there.

“Tobirama,” he manages instead, and hopes beyond all reason that it doesn’t sound as choked as it feels.

There's a long, long pause as Tobirama just stares at him. Then, carefully, he looks away, towards the menu on the wall, and when his gaze slides back it’s completely shuttered, unreadable.

Madara always hated it so much when he did that.

“Madara,” he returns, as bland as if they're acquaintances meeting on the street. “This is an…unexpected change of occupation.”

Automatically, Madara bristles, grip convulsing around the rag he’s still holding as if it’s Tobirama’s throat. “I _own_ this shop!” he says, a little too loudly, and immediately regrets it when Tobirama arches one cool brow at him. “I see you're just as much of an asshole as always,” he retorts, petty satisfaction surging to the fore when Tobirama’s mouth tightens, nostrils flaring in offence.

“I'm also a paying customer,” Tobirama says, though the look in his eyes says he wants to feed Madara to the cash register.

Madara growls, but if Tobirama’s going to pretend not to be a petty asshole, he can too. “Fine,” he says snippily, then turns to where Hikaku is hovering at the edge of the counter, looking uncertain. “An extra-large black house coffee with two shots of espresso and one sugar—”

“No,” Tobirama interrupts, and Madara jerks around to stare at him, because he knew Tobirama for _years_ and the bastard always drank the exact same thing. Not _once_ , in their two years together or the numerous coffee shop dates before that, did Tobirama even _once_ change his order.

Apparently unaware of this, Tobirama meets Madara's eyes, and says like it’s a personal challenge, “I’ll take a large skim milk latte with three pumps of raspberry syrup and two pumps of caramel. Whipped cream and chocolate shavings on top, thank you.”

Madara _gapes_. Tobirama doesn’t eat sweets. At _most_ he can be persuaded to eat a slice of birthday cake once a year, or a few pieces of chocolate when he’s particularly stressed. Not—not an abomination to the name of coffee like _that_.

Tobirama holds his incredulous stare, not even wavering. His face is absolutely serious.

“You heard the man,” Madara manages to choke out, and Hikaku turns to start pulling shots, though he casts a curious look back at Tobirama and Madara. Normally Madara would tell him to mind his own business, but just this once he doesn’t bother, entirely distracted by the man in front of him. Silently, he takes the twenty Tobirama passes him, hands back the change, and watches as Tobirama dumps it all into the tip jar without hesitation. Not hurting for funds, then, and Madara is glad for him, remembers all too clearly how Hashirama and Tobirama both used to work two jobs to help their cousin pay for food and keep their younger brothers in their private school. Madara had been entirely certain that Tobirama in particular would die of exhaustion before he hit twenty-five.

“Are you visiting Konoha?” he asks, and hates himself for how distant it sounds, small talk between strangers. Though, he supposes, that’s more or less what they are now.

Tobirama’s eyes linger on him for a moment, then slide away, and he looks out the window. “No,” he says, and it’s just a little less steady than it might otherwise have been. “We have a house here. Itama and Kawarama were both accepted at the university.”

That must have been a great relief for him, Madara thinks, and then fiercely berates himself for caring. He _shouldn’t_ ; Tobirama practically packed his bags and disappeared into the night. A week of warning was all Madara got that their relationship was ending, and maybe it hadn’t been going as well as it should, maybe things were terrible in that moment, but—

But.

He takes a careful breath and says gruffly, “I'm glad.”

The line of Tobirama’s mouth softens, even in profile. “Itama is in med school,” he says, “and Kawarama wants to be a physicist.”

It’s only been five years; Madara can still clearly remember Tobirama’s terrifying younger siblings, even if he’s tried to forget. He wishes them well, and hopes that age has done better by them than it did Izuna when it comes to adulthood. “And you?” he asks, watches Tobirama go still again. Clearly his tastes have changed, if he’s ordering a drink like _that_ , and—Madara can't help but want to know what else has, even if it’s a shitty, stupid impulse.

“Clearly you lost your taste,” he adds, mouth practically moving on its own, but god damn it he sounds like he _cares_ and he can't allow that. “Did you hit your head? Suffer a brain injury?”

Deep, wrathful offence flashes across Tobirama’s face, and he rounds on Madara with a growl. “My taste is _fine,_ ” he bites out, then snatches the cup that Hikaku offers him. Meeting Madara's stare again, he lifts it to his lips, takes a large, challenging sip, and then growls, “Good day,” before he turns on his heel and stalks out the door.

“Uh,” Hikaku says into the silence. “Boss…?”

Madara snarls, snatches one of the bills Tobirama left out of the tip jar, and then flings it to the ground and stomps on it hard, crushing it under his foot. “That—albino _bastard_ ,” he spits. “Damned _idiot_!”

(It’s probably telling that he isn’t sure whether he’s referring to Tobirama or himself. One chance to _talk_ to Tobirama again, one chance meeting out of the whole city, and now there's no way to know if it will ever happen again, if Tobirama lives near here or if this is somewhere he’ll never go again. Tobirama left and Madara _hates_ him for it, but in a way that’s far too close to love.

One glimpse of the bastard and Madara is in a tailspin with the ground closing fast, nothing to catch him as he falls.)

 

 

Tobirama spent all day telling himself he wasn’t going to even _attempt_ to leave early. That he wasn’t going to walk past the coffee shop on 7 th and stop there to buy Hashirama a coffee. That even if he did, Madara wouldn’t necessarily be there, and if he _was_ it didn’t matter.

Normally Tobirama is decent at keeping to his resolutions. This one, however—

He tries not to slink shamefully as he opens the door, strides in like this isn’t all a mistake and the stupidest idea since he took up with his brother’s friend in the first place.

(Like it isn’t the most idiotic he’s been since he put off telling Madara that he was moving, because Hashirama had a job offer and he and Itama had university and they would all go together or not at all. Tobirama is eminently practical, but just that once sentiment and desperation won out. They hadn’t worked, hadn’t _been_ working, and Tobirama kept hoping for a miracle that never came, right up until the end.)

This time, the boy Kawarama’s age is restocking the pastry case, and Madara is making a drink for a woman with bright red hair pulled up in two buns. They're sniping at each other, and Tobirama tries not to look at them, tries to keep his attention on the menu instead of on speculation as he waits.

“—sure you haven’t found them?” the woman demands.

“I _told_ you, Mito,” Madara snaps, and that’s the voice he uses when he has absolutely no patience left. “I haven’t seen your damned earrings—”

“My _mother_ gave them to me, you heartless _jerkwad_ ,” she snaps, though her tone is arctic instead of hot, which is the way Tobirama’s always gets when he’s furious at Madara. He has to admire her self-control, even as he wonders, dark and unhappy and a little guiltily, why her earrings are somewhere Madara might find them.

“And I haven’t seen them!” Madara hisses, slamming her iced coffee down in front of her. “You _moved out_ , you can't expect me to keep track of the things you left!” Mito bristles, eyes going flinty, but before she can snap at him Madara huffs. “ _If_ I find them I’ll call you. Now get out of my store.”

“See that you do,” Mito tells him, silkily threatening, then picks up her coffee and sweeps out the door with all the poise of a queen. Madara makes a face at her retreating back, then turns to the register, wiping his hands off. He sees Tobirama standing there and freezes like a rabbit in headlights for half a second, but Tobirama can _see_ the fit of pique that flashes over his face as he shifts into motion, stalking over to the counter.

“Tobirama,” he says curtly, and starts punching buttons. “One extra-large house—”

“A large white mocha with two pumps each white chocolate, peppermint, and chocolate syrup,” Tobirama interrupts, only partly for the color Madara's skin takes on, and the horror that crosses his face along with it. Well, maybe _largely_ for that. He could always tell Madara it’s for Hashirama, but where is the enjoyment in that? “And extra whipped cream.”

He’s fairly certain the color of Madara's skin right now is best described as _puce_.

“Is Izuna well?” he asks, because as much as Tobirama has always personally wanted to set Izuna on fire and launch him out of a canon, siblings are always a safe topic with Madara. And also a good distraction from the fact that if Tobirama wants to sell the act, he’s going to have to take a sip of Hashirama’s foul concoction. Last time he had to use mouthwash to get the taste to go away.

Madara harrumphs, glaring at Tobirama suspiciously as he punches in the new order. “Fine,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Skipping out on work. _Again_.”

Tobirama spares a moment to be unspeakably glad that he didn’t come in while Izuna was working. There likely would have been a fistfight.

“And Hashirama?” Madara asks, moving down the bar to make the drink. For want of anything better to do, Tobirama follows him, tries to keep his eyes off the curve of Madara's neck where it’s bared by his ponytail. He’s always loved Madara with hair up; it brings his face into sharp relief, beautiful and arresting, and not staring takes…rather more effort than it should.

“He owns a nursery for exotic plants,” Tobirama says, “And volunteers with one of the local youth groups.” He ignores the flicker of jealousy as he says it, buries the regret that his own work doesn’t leave time for such things. He’s happy with his job.

When he looks up from his study of the pastries in the case, Madara is watching him, dark eyes full of something Tobirama can't quite read. Deliberately, Madara sets the brimming cup down, snaps on the lid, and then says, “We sell coffee passes.”

Tobirama blinks, tilting his head. He’d noticed that on one corner of the menu, but hadn’t thought to ask what it was. “A…coffee pass?”

Defiantly, Madara jams a straw into Hashirama’s monstrosity of a drink. “Ten dollars and you get free refills on any regular menu coffees for the day.”

Tobirama isn’t quite sure what that has to do with anything, but he glances around the shop, taking in the neat tables and the overstuffed couches under the window. A decent place to work, taken together, and…maybe it’s an invitation to come back at some point and spend the day?

Though, knowing Madara, it’s equally likely to be an attempt to make Tobirama drink the misnamed, melted milkshakes Hashirama so adores for several hours straight.

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Tobirama says, taking the cup. Madara is watching with narrowed eyes, so he takes a long sip, manages not to gag at the cloying sweetness spreading across his tongue, and then turns and makes his exit.

 

 

“ _Stupid_ ,” Madara hisses at himself, even as he casts another glance at the clock instead of the table he’s nominally wiping. He shouldn’t—it’s a _Saturday_ , there's absolutely no saying that Tobirama will come in, or that he’ll be in anything like a conversational mood if he does. Madara had just been…

Well. Desperate, no matter how unflattering it is to say.

Seeing Tobirama and Mito sharing the same space was a shock. Largely because Mito, regardless of how beautiful and brilliant and cutting, now only inspires vague irritation and regret. Whereas looking at Tobirama floods Madara's brain with sheer chaos, all rage and attraction and loss and _want_ , and it turns him into a fool.

“Are you all right?” Kagami asks, because of course it couldn’t be polite, mindful Hikaku working today. “You look kind of constipated. Should I call Izuna?”

“Do _not_ call Izuna!” Madara snaps, horror bolting through him as he jerks upright. Izuna will _never_ rest until he finds out what has Madara in a snit, and then he’ll be _insufferable_ about it. And likely overprotective as well; his relationship with Tobirama has always been…argumentative, to say the least.

“Sorry, sorry!” Kagami raises his hands in surrender, then turns back to the register as his expression brightens three shades. “Oh, _hotness_! And he’s coming in, score!”

Dread curdles in Madara's stomach, and he lifts his head just as the bell over the door chimes. Tobirama steps in, dressed down in a light coat and dark jeans that do ridiculous things for his long legs, and his eyes immediately flicker to Madara, catch and hold.

The rest of the shop is entirely empty, and Madara can't quite breathe right. Tobirama is wearing the shirt Madara picked out for him six years ago, and Madara _knows_ Tobirama. There's no way that’s anything but a deliberate choice.

“Kagami,” he manages, and it’s a miracle the words don’t get caught in his throat. “Go do inventory.”

“What?” Kagami objects. “You _hate_ having me do inventory!”

Having to recount everything tomorrow will be worth it to have Kagami otherwise occupied for this conversation. Also, he keeps casting admiring glances at Tobirama and Madara _objects_. “ _Go_ ,” he snaps, and Kagami makes a face but pushes off the counter, slamming into the back room with a huff.

Tobirama watches him go with amused eyes, and says, “I’ll be very glad when there are no teenagers left in the house. Kawarama alone is enough to age me beyond my time.”

Madara snorts, because the day Izuna moved out was the day he regained his sanity, and the day he hired teenagers was the day he started to lose it again. Setting his bleach cloth aside, he turns back to the counter, and asks over his shoulder, “It’s a little late for a coffee pass, but were you wanting another diabetic coma in a cup? Maybe if I add enough sugar I can jumpstart your taste buds again.”

Unless Madara is massively mistaken, there's a flicker of humor in Tobirama’s eyes, the curve of his mouth. It makes that sharp face softer, somehow, and Madara has to look away, has to force himself not to react to the way the light from the lamps catches on Tobirama’s hair, his skin, the red marks on his cheeks. Madara used to kiss them, and now he doesn’t, and it’s the most unsettling thing in the world.

“I never expected you of all people to move to the city,” Tobirama says, following on silent feet. When Madara gives him a narrow look, he rolls his eyes, and says, “An extra-large house coffee with—”

“Two shots of espresso and one sugar,” Madara finishes for him, more than a little vindicated to have been proven right at last.

There's a long moment of silence as Tobirama eyes him, and then says quietly, “You remember.”

Madara will never tell him that it was the first drink he ever made in this shop, that he made it for himself the day he opened and drank it sitting by the window, watching the sun rise over the city. That he thought about Tobirama the whole time, running from their small town out in the country with only a few days’ notice and no way to contact him again. Neither he nor Hashirama had said where they were going, and Madara hadn’t realized he needed to ask until after they’d already left.

“Of course I remember,” he snaps, and it comes out sharper than he intends. “I had to listen to you give it a thousand times, you picky bastard.”

Tobirama has never been distracted by his bristling, though. Red eyes linger for another moment, and Tobirama offers, still soft, “I'm sorry.”

Finding the words is practically impossible. Madara stares at the computer screen, trying to breathe, and wonders why that isn’t anywhere near as satisfying to hear as he once dreamed it would be. Maybe because he isn’t a teenager himself anymore; he knows that their relationship had been on the rocks since well before Tobirama physically left.

“It wasn’t—it wasn’t the right time for us,” he gets out, and this is something he’s thought of far too often. They’d tried, but with who they were then, with all the jagged edges they hadn’t quite managed to smooth out yet, they didn’t fit together. Five years apart and a handful of other relationships have taught Madara that much.

Tobirama smiles, faint and wry. “No,” he agrees. “It wasn’t.”

There's a question behind the words, subtle enough that Madara could entirely ignore it if he wanted to. But he _doesn’t_ —that was his entire reason for that clumsy attempt to invite Tobirama back for a whole day, or at least a few hours’ time. It’s the reason he’s been haunting the windows, watching the street, since the moment they opened this morning.

Madara can be bold, when the situation requires it. Can be brave, and forward, because Tobirama has always been cautious and held himself back and he needs someone to balance him. The counter is still between them, Tobirama’s order half rung up, but Tobirama is watching him and Madara _wants_ in a way he’d forgotten he was capable of. His life hasn’t been boring, or empty, but it’s been _dull_ these past years. Tobirama always matched him in every way that mattered, and Madara has never found another person who managed that in the same way. Has never really _wanted_ to, because he fell in love once and never fell out of it.

Some part of him has spent the last five years waiting for Tobirama to walk through his door, and now that he has Madara isn’t going to let him walk back out without _something_.

He reaches out, catches Tobirama by the collar of that stupid blue shirt Madara bought him, and jerks him forward. Tobirama moves with the motion, catches himself on the edge of the counter and leans in as Madara steps forward to meet him, and they collide with the harsh sting of teeth on lips and meshed lips and _heat_. Madara could burn up in the face of this, wild and well-remembered and desperate, and when Tobirama moans into his mouth it shivers up his spine and makes him gasp.

“My office,” he gets out, wrenching away from Tobirama just enough to speak, and Tobirama is flushed and dazed, eyes wide, cheeks pink, lips parted as he breathes hard. Madara wants to _wreck_ him, ruin him for anyone else and keep him from ever leaving. They're older now, wiser; they can try again, and this time it won't end in disaster.

“Lead the way,” Tobirama manages, and there's a sharpness in his eyes, something hungry and fit to devour that makes Madara weak at the knees. It takes effort to make himself let go of Tobirama, ducking around the end of the counter and wrenching off his apron. He grabs Tobirama by the wrist and pulls him towards the back room, only pausing long enough to bang a fist on the door of the stockroom as they pass through the kitchen.

“Kagami, watch the front!” he orders, but Tobirama has already spotted his office and is dragging him towards it.

“I thought you wanted me to count stock!” Kagami protests, before the door of Madara's office falls shut and drowns him out. Madara locks the door, already turning, and Tobirama collides with him full-on, kissing him like he can't bear to stop.

Madara moans into it, gets his hands on lean hips and hauls Tobirama up against him. Clever hands are on the back of his head, and with a jerk his ponytail comes loose, hair tumbling down around his shoulders. Madara makes a sound of annoyance, but Tobirama just huffs in satisfaction, and a moment later fingers tangle in his hair, pulling tight even as Tobirama tilts his head, deepens the kiss and slides his tongue into Madara's mouth to twist against his own. It’s open-mouthed and messy in a way that makes Madara's head spin, and he slides a hand around to the button of those tight jeans and can't help but press his hand there, one hard touch.

There's a muffled cry against his mouth, a jerk. Tobirama throws his head back, eyes fluttering shut, and he rocks into the touch with a desperation that says it’s been too long since he indulged. Madara _knows_ how he gets, how he denies himself, how it makes the pleasure sweeter when he finally gives in and touches himself. _Loves_ to have him when he’s like this, needy and breathless with it, squirming up into Madara's palm like he can't help it.

“Missed you, bastard,” he gets out against Tobirama’s cheek, slides his lips down that smooth-soft skin as Tobirama shudders. Madara is already hard and aching with it, and he guides them a step back to press Tobirama up against the desk. Tobirama goes with it easily, lets himself be spilled onto the hard surface without a single protest and spreads his legs. At the sight of him there Madara _groans_ , sets his teeth against the arch of Tobirama’s throat and sucks hard enough to leave a mark, rolls the skin between his teeth until Tobirama is crying out, arching into him and wrapping long legs around him. The friction against Madara's cock is too much. He whimpers, jerking forward, rocks down into the hardness of Tobirama’s body, and Tobirama thrusts back. There's a hand between them, undoing Madara's pants, and Madara finds Tobirama’s zipper, tries to get it undone without getting in Tobirama’s way. He drags the heavy cloth and then his underwear down, and Tobirama gasps and shudders as Madara wraps a hand around him.

“Prove it,” he challenges, breathless and sly, and Madara kisses the smirk off his lips, slides their cocks together and gets his fingers around both of them at once. Tobirama rolls his hips up, and the drag of their cocks sliding together is enough to shatter Madara. He rocks back, desperate and breathless, drags his hand up to press his thumb at the heads and smear wetness down over their shafts. Heels dig into the backs of his thighs, pull him in as Tobirama grips his hair and kisses him even harder, bites at his lower lip and makes Madara's eyes cross at the pinpoint wash of prickling heat that radiates out through him. He groans at the almost-too-rough friction, the drag of soft skin, the hardness of Tobirama’s shaft and the perfect tightness of his hand.

Tobirama is jerking up, desperate and _beautiful_ , muscles corded in his arms and chest almost bared. Disbelieving, desperate, Madara buries his face in Tobirama’s neck, right where his mark is blooming red on pale skin, and doesn’t try to fight the coiling tension in his gut, the numbing heat of pleasure cresting. Wants, and _takes_ , and Tobirama takes in return, pulls at Madara's hair and wrenches him close and cries out, back bowing, breath stuttering. Wetness splatters between them, the sudden slickness easing the drag, and it’s enough. Madara gasps, the roll of his hips stuttering, and he shoves Tobirama against the desk, moaning out a fractured sound that tries to be Tobirama’s name. It feels like more than a physical release, like something has come loose inside of him when he didn’t even know it was knotted, and he lets out a ragged, aching sound against Tobirama’s skin.

The fingers in his hair gentle, and Tobirama cups the back of his head instead, stroking gently as he holds Madara close. His own breaths are shaky, but his legs are still tight around Madara, and he kisses Madara's temple, his forehead, the curve of his ear. Madara laughs, rough and fractured, because if he doesn’t it feels like he’s going to cry. He slides an arm behind Tobirama’s head, pulls him closer still and turns his head to kiss him, gentle and lingering.

“Stay,” he whispers as they separate, and has never meant anything more.

“I have nowhere else to be,” Tobirama says, which might as well be an enthusiastic agreement, coming from him. Madara huffs out a satisfied breath, pressing his cheek to Tobirama’s, and—

A stray thought sparks.

Instantly, Madara jerks up, jerks back, a wash of furious offence burying his peaceful languor like an avalanche. “You—!” he splutters.

Tobirama rolls his eyes, but he gets an elbow under himself and leans up, watching Madara with a coolly arched brow. “Me?” he asks, but Madara can _see_ the amusement on his face, the _rat bastard_.

“Those coffees were for Hashirama!” Madara snarls at him, offended right down to his _toes_ that he even fell for it in the first place.

Tobirama tips his head back and _laughs_.


End file.
